


Trainwreck

by theviolonist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 03:25:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a boy in the middle of the crowd, his eyes immense and green, greener than he's ever seen. Castiel thinks he may teach him Enochian someday, because everyone should speak Enochian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They don't understand what he says.  
  
Not a word. They're beautiful words, they are, delicately crafted and chiseled, and he's learned how to say them, golden and laced with honey, but they don't understand. They're looking at him as though he just descended from Heaven, and he thinks it may be a sin, but he doesn't care, not really. He was told to achieve His goals, and so he will do. He'll obey. He always does.  
  
This land looks nothing like he expected. After Heaven, its endless sea, blue, green, red, gold, this looks like a shore littered with trash. There is no symmetry, nothing resembling order – no anchor he can hold onto to keep his spinning mind clear. It's so strange, this world. It's so imperfect – it hurts.  
  
There is a boy in the middle of the crowd, his eyes immense and green, greener than he's ever seen.  
  
“What are you?” the boy asks.  
  
His lips are red and luscious, too luscious for a kid his age, but his words are still rough, blurted and vulgar, blurred at the edges. Castiel thinks he may teach him Enochian someday, because everyone should speak Enochian. He doesn't answer. There are no words in the boy's language to define who – what – he is.  
  
There's another boy standing next to the green-eyed one. His eyes are darker and there's something hot and powerful pounding in him like a heart, maybe a flame, maybe something else. Castiel knows everything is meant to be – he doesn't want to believe it, but he has to. He is never wrong, after all.  
  
He reaches to touch the taller boy's cheek, and he flinches at the contact, but doesn't step back. Castiel knows the feeling – it's like scalding iron or fire or ice and it hurts, the pain is out-of-this-word, but he knows – he remembers – the worst is feeling that you're being _marked_. The boy just clenches his jaw. Someday, Castiel thinks (but deep inside, he knows everything will go wrong), he'll bow to this boy.  
  
When Castiel draws his hand back, there's a red trace on the boy's cheek, and Castiel can't help but think how Heaven would have made him incredibly more beautiful, and how splendid this mark would've seemed in the soft, unforgiving light of Heaven. How He would have been proud and said 'You are all my children.'  
  
They don't understand what he says.  
  
It's a pity – he's just come from Heaven and he doesn't really know how to deal with the world. It's so different from before (the burning castles, the armor-clad kings, shining in the setting sun, their swords gleaming with red, red, blood), so different from up there – he doesn't think they could imagine, even if they tried. Maybe, he reflects, the dark boy will have an idea after he's seen Hell. The other one never will. He's got this kind of blood-stained purity that will keep him from really seeing what Hell is and forbid him access to Heaven.  
  
This world. Sometimes he can't believe that He created it. It's so full of imperfections – he can see cracks everywhere, as though every single thing were only seconds from falling. But then he thinks: what about Heaven? Aren't there cracks in Heaven he can't see? He chooses not to think about it. He's tired, really tired – he wants to stretch his wings, forget his vessel and fly.  
  
The thing is, he can't remember. He can't remember flying - it's as though entering the vessel disconnected all of his memories, even _flying_ , his most elementary ability, the one that most defines him. He feels disoriented and lost – his language is the only thing that keeps him who he is, that keeps him true.  
  
“Dean,” the younger boy says, his insanely green eyes trained on Castiel. He looks serious, and Castiels thinks, 'He knows'.  
  
He does. Some people are angels of the Lord and some people are cursed. It isn't all too different, when you think about it. Castiel reaches out to touch him but he ducks his head and bares his teeth, he looks like an animal, built entirely on instincts and stretched muscles, hunger for blood and intense, raw power.  
  
The other boy takes his hand. His eyes are back to normal, calm and maybe a little sad (when he looks at the the green-eyed boy, they lit up and the flame is back). Castiel should do something. He can feel what is going to happen, all the tragedies and the pain, the fires, the blades sticky with blood. He can feel the Apocalypse. He's lived forever, Castiel. He can feel those things. He's seen more than his share of Apocalypses already.  
  
The wind carries a scent of musk and salt mingled with sweat. There's blood, but less than Castiel thought there would be, because this is going to be a real war, one where people don't have to bleed to be shattered. (Castiel knows the salt. He's used it more than once. It stinks of demons and luxury, a pregnant, heady smell he's had to learn not to succumb to).  
  
“Castiel,” he says.  
  
But it sounds wrong in this language. In Enochian, Castiel is a bundle of arachnidan threads that tangle to form a silver cascade; it's a world that dusk sets ablaze; it's a gentle brush of hand on a child's smooth forehead; it's the gracious dance of chiseled clock hands singing their lullaby of 'tick-tock' in the dew-covered night; it's the powerful, earthy, burning scent of wings being unfolded; it's the distant rumble of a coming hurricane. In Human, it's syllables you can write and tear up. It doesn't mean anything.  
  
The green-eyed boy has a gun in one of his belt loops on which he keeps a wary hand, and Castiel can see, from the callouses on his hands and the familiar way they fit its grip, that he's held this weapon more times than he should have. He can't help the anger (sin, sin, sin) from firing hot and sudden in his stomach.  
  
Dean, he thinks. And then: So it is time.  
  
Because it is time. He didn't think it would be so soon, so strong and so tangibly impossible, but it's okay, because the green-eyed boy is looking at him, his eyes never wavering. 'You don't have to pretend,' Castiel wants to say – but he can't. 'I know you've been afraid of. It's okay. Everything is going to be okay.' He wants to lie.  
  
But Castiel can't lie, so he kneels on the dirty ground, the tails of his coat brushing the dust, and bows his head to the little boy. Here I am, says his stretched back.  
  
The boy extends a wary hand, the other one still hov hovering over his gun, to touch Castiel's shoulder, where – but he can't see it – his invisible wings rest, vibrating with light.  
  
“Are you my guardian angel?” he asks, because he's a child, and he still thinks he has the right to be saved.  
  
“No,” Castiel answers with a shudder.  
  
The other boy is hovering behind Dean, his shadow engulfing Dean's, but he doesn't say anything. Castiel thinks that maybe he understands how important this is. It wouldn't be really surprising. Sam will always be the serious one.  
  
And then everything goes very fast. Dean, his eyes sparkling with impossible stars, opens his hand, lets go of his gun, and places his right hand on Castiel's forehead. It's all he imagined it would be and more – stars, meteorites, fireworks, Heaven's thunder. Dean's fingers are like claws of fire on his vessel's skin, it burns, it burns, it burns – the pain is like nothing he's ever felt before.  
  
But it's what He wanted, it's what he wants, so he closes his eyes, grins and bears it.  
  
Dean seems afraid, as though he doesn't know why he's doing that, and he probably doesn't – his expression guarded and wild. Castiel feels something surge in his chest and rise above the suffering, but he ignores it. He knows. He knows what will happen, and he won't be able to escape it better later than he is now, but it isn't time.  
  
“Castiel,” the boy says, and draws his hand back from Castiel's forehead to press it against his mouth, and Castiel knows that destiny didn't wait for them.  
  
He takes a few seconds to be surprised. So Dean understood his name? It sounds strange in his mouth – less delicate, less beautiful, of course, but somehow more intense, laced with something intimate. It's tangible; it's like he exists, for once, like he is a being of flesh and blood, and he lets himself fall into the illusion for a few seconds, just the time for something dizzy and fluttering to settle in his stomach.  
  
Oh, he knows humanity. He's never liked humans, though: too messy, too sneaky, too hypocrite, too full of flaws. Castiel – it's a stupid thing to say, but he's always been the good boy. Between tongue-in-cheek Gabriel, ugly duckling Lucifer and his Nemesis Michael, as well as cold, serious Raphael, not to mention the others, he's always been the quietest, the most forgettable, somehow.  
  
He's never understood the human urge for such destructive passions as love or death; never really grasped why humans couldn't quietly enjoy the fullness of a calm life spent meditating and rising above the mortal torments. He's always found stupid their way of destroying everything good that came their way; twisted their morbid fascinations and fondness for suffering; pathetic their attachment to their carnal envelopes.  
  
But now, faced as he is with the littlest, most unremarkable of humans, a little boy with unnaturally green eyes and a thick drawl, obviously not properly brought up, growling at such a harmless thing as a touch of hand from an angel, he can't help but understand them. Oh, he knows it's stupid, of course, he does. How could such an insignificant being, a child, succeed where even archangels failed – instill in him this hope for the human race?  
  
The thoughts flee his mind as the pain on his forehead calls him to attention, stinging. It's seldom that he gets to feel pain, and it isn't entirely pleasant, but it's nice enough, really – it changes him from this constant neutrality he always ends up getting sick of, eventually.  
  
“Castiel,” the boy repeats, and he looks like he wants to say something else, but the younger boy tugs at his sleeve and whispers in his ear that they have to go.  
  
Castiel tries to grasp everything that crosses the boy's eyes – fear, relief, wonder, regret – but there's too much, and he lets most of it slip away, maybe intentionally.  
  
“Wait.”  
  
He extends two fingers to touch the boy's forehead. He never does that, he never does, but today he takes the memories and keeps them for himself, because he can, and because he wants to remember the little boy with the green eyes who looked at him as though he were his savior.  
  
He knows Destiny will reunite them. Death will too, and God, and his brothers - even the bad child in his dark kingdom. He knows there are plans for the green-eyed boy, he's always known it. Their meeting here wasn't a coincidence. Nothing is. Everything is meant to be.  
  
But he knows – maybe he's deluding himself, but he doesn't really care, he never really did know how to draw the lines – that some of that wasn't part of the plan. Maybe it's the name, maybe it's the hour or the position of the sun or the fire in the younger boy's heart, he doesn't know, but there was something. It still thrums pleasantly in him like a fading echo, and it seems to Castiel that it says, 'Great things are to come' as an undertone beneath the battlefields littered with lifeless bodies and the scolding, divine anger.  
  
He watches the boys leaves, their steps raising clouds of golden-brown dust, and Castiel can't remember why he's been sent here. Does it even matter? Was it real? Wasn't all this just some divine plan to make him meet the boy? He doesn't really care, to tell the truth. He feels tired, drained of all his energy and oddly _human_ , in an itching, uncomfortable way. It's time to go back, he thinks, and it doesn't matter if he hasn't finished whatever he had to do. He'll say something. He always finds something to say. He's the good child, Castiel – he's the one that hasn't been perverted by the human passions and feuds.  
  
As he finally leaves, Castiel tells himself he'll be back later, when Destiny has unraveled her threads and put her cards on the table. He knows them already (the ace of spades, the two of diamonds, the kind of hearts and a joker – no clubs) but he'll wait anyway.  
  
“I shall be back”, he thinks as he fades into nothingness, the sun an acute heat on his back and nape. And he adds, as an afterthought, “I'll grip him tight and raise him from perdition.”  
  
**  
  
The second time, the meeting has nothing to do with chance. Castiel would be lying if he said he hadn't planned every second, every expression, every word – but still the child surprises him. He's a little older, maybe sixteen. He's grown into a handsome young man, pretty in a way few men are without getting teased for it, still a little gruff but charmingly so.  
  
There's a shadow in his eyes that tells Castiel that he hasn't been spared. Tragedy, it seems, has not waited to strike his house – and there is something hardened in the way he holds himself, as though perpetually waiting for something bad to happen.  
  
Castiel doesn't pretend to be human. He's weary – the angelic world is currently the cradle of all sorts of troubles, and what used to be the faint smell of a distant war is getting closer every day, bringing in its wake tumultuous waves of panicked angels, their wings raised above their heads as though to sense the trouble better. He wouldn't know how to pretend. It's been a long time since he stopped pretending to be human, and even longer since he was actually one.  
  
“Hi, Dean,” he says, and Dean's head jerks up from where it rests on the head of his car seat. Castiel can hear the low murmur of a song in the background, and he thinks, oddly, that it kind of fits their story – if they have one.  
  
“Who are you?” Dean asks.  
  
He looks a little panicked, but not near as much as he should – ought to – be. It makes Castiel feel sad and angry in a strange way that he is so used to danger that he has such a weak reaction to it. He remarks that Dean's fingers grip his gun – the same as years ago, when they first met.  
  
“Remember me?”  
  
It's a stupid thing to ask, and more than a little romantic, but Castiel can't help it. Dean obviously won't remember him: after all, he's the one who erased his memory, and he'd be surprised if he'd done his job wrong.  
  
“What do you want?” Dean asks, and he sounds so exhausted Castiel wants to reach out and make him fall asleep, just like that, but he doesn't.  
  
“I don't want anything from you, Dean,” he replies instead. “I mean you no harm.”  
  
He regrets the soothing, precise words of Enochian more acutely than ever. What wonders they would do here, on the tense, strained body of this boy! What peace they would bring into his soul! But he forgets, because there's a time to tell who he is and this time hasn't come, not yet.  
  
“Why don't you and me go for coffee, Dean?” he asks in his gentler tones.  
  
He's not sure how it comes out, however; Dean's eyes are still wary in the pale light of early morning, and his knuckles are still white where they are squeezing the wheel. But then he seems to think, 'whatever', and his body unclenches. It's not in a happy, relaxed kind of way, though – more like he knows he has nothing to lose and is too tired to fight. Castiel will take anything.  
  
Dean takes his coffee plain and black, and Castiel doesn't drink coffee. Food – or drink, for that matters – doesn't particularly appeal to him. He sometimes eats to keep his vessel in good shape when his angelic powers aren't enough, but nothing more than the strict minimum. Dean sips his coffee silently, and they walk side by side, their pace unconsciously adjusting to each other so that they fall in step, halfway between Dean's quick, nervous stride and Castiel's serene, unhurried pace.  
  
“What are you afraid of, Dean?” Castiel suddenly asks, not really expecting Dean to answer - but he does, because he's _Dean_.  
  
He scratches his neck and Castiel thinks that maybe he doesn't realize he's with a stranger – maybe it's too early and he's a little bleary and rough, and Castiel wants to reach out and take his hand, count his fingers until he can't see, but he pushes the urge back into his chest and listens to what Dean has to say.  
  
“I don't know, man... Dad, I guess – and Sam, because he'll leave, one day, you know? Death, too, and there's this girl, I think her name is Sophia, but I'm so -”  
  
At each of the fear he names, it's like a shadow works its way onto his face, and he darkens by the second. Castiel regrets ever asking the question.  
  
Then Dean breaks down.  
  
It had to happen.  
  
Dean breaks down and he just stops right there in the middle of the road, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides, his shoulders shaking and his moans muffled, like an animal's, as though he doesn't really know how to cry but is ashamed of it anyway.  
  
And Castiel doesn't know how to do this. He's never had to hold anyone in his arms, let alone a sixteen-year-old teenager whose life is upside down and probably isn't going to get better anytime soon. He doesn't know how to pat his back, and let his sobs soak this trench coat he's had since he can't remember. He doesn't know how to wait for him to calm down, how to whisper soothing nothings in his ear. He doesn't know how to care, to really care for someone – he's never had to.  
  
But he does it anyway. He does it all for Dean, frail, fragile little Dean, who doesn't deserve all he's suffered and all he's going to suffer, and he thinks that faith sometimes isn't enough.  
  
He holds Dean and he closes his eyes to remember the imprint this still thin, breakable body leaves in his vessel's, the way his hands clutch on his vessel's shoulders. For the first time in his life, he regrets not having a body to himself, a body that can suffer and bleed, which bears the scar of a whole life spent caring and loving and breaking. He regrets not being human, just for Dean.  
  
But then the moment breaks. Dean pulls away, looking at him with wide eyes in which a turmoil of emotions simmers, and he runs away. Castiel watches him run to his car, dropping his cup of coffee which falls on the ground, splattering it with black droplets. He watches as the sleek black Impala disappears in a cloud of dust.  
  
'It's how it happens,' he says to himself to contain the sadness and the pain. 'It has to happen like that. A cloud of dust and Dean who goes away.'  
  
But he stays a few days in town. He drops by and he sits by the window to look at Sam and Dean putter around the kitchen, laughing throatily, deep, rich laughs that don't succeed in hiding the black circles under their eyes. He gives them a few clues on how to kill whatever monster they're researching, and even if they seem surprised to find the books on the table when they come back from the diner, they don't say anything.  
  
He erases Dean's memory when he's asleep, sitting on the edge of his bed. He isn't the same as when he was a child, but in some ways he hasn't changed at all, full lips and thin eyelids, sharp features.  
  
It takes him by surprise, a strong kick in his gut – this _want_ , this urge to touch this handsome face, just a few seconds, nothing, really, just take a bit of his beauty with him to this Heaven which, ironically, tends to lack it.  
  
So he does.  
  
He's never been one to be shy, Castiel. Oh, maybe he's slow, maybe he's a daddy-boy, he won't say the contrary – maybe he's naïve and too genuine sometimes and maybe his will to do nothing but good is stupid in such a world. But he's never been one to hesitate.  
  
Dean's skin feels unexpectedly soft under his calloused fingers. He doesn't take care of his vessel, not as much as some others do (Gabriel spends so many hours pampering his it's becoming ridiculous), and sometimes he's surprised to find out how rough his skin feels, and he hates even more that it isn't his – that it doesn't mean anything about him.  
  
Dean's eyelashes flutter at the soft caress and something in Castiel's heart – another thing he's always surprised to feel, pounding as it is in his chest – misses a beat. He's so far gone it's not even funny. He grins slightly as he thinks that it probably isn't in His plans. For once, he's happy not to be the good child. It gets boring.  
  
The sun is already high in the sky when he leaves Dean, feeling guilty and sad and just plain tired, worn to the bone. It's not a comfortable feeling. He watches as Dean wakes up and smiles when he touches his cheek wonderingly.  
  
When he leaves, this time, he makes no promises he's not sure he'll be able to keep. He hums a Metallica song and he closes his eyes to replay the moment in his head, the smoothness of Dean's skin under his fingers, the hair Castiel had to push from his eyes, and the way Dean quivered when he laced their fingers.  
  
It doesn't matter if he doesn't have the right to do that. He's tired of being the prodigal son.  
  
**  
  
There are a lot of things Castiel doesn't understand. He doesn't understand humanity. He doesn't understand why Dean is always bigger when he comes back. He doesn't understand why he keeps coming back. It doesn't bother him not to understand – it has been said that complete knowledge is a sin, after all – but sometimes it nudges at the back of his mind, a little, screeching voice: “Why do you always come back?”  
  
And he doesn't understand why he _feels_ Dean like that. It's not – it's never been like that. Castiel has lived for a long time, more than a lot of angels. He knows what it is to have a human. He knows. He's never been in love, love is a stupid word, but he's already _felt_ someone. It was a long time ago – Castiel doesn't remember much about it, but he does remember the constant awareness, the low thrum in his body that made the other's presence known at all times – that reminded him that the other was down there, that he was alive, doing things, feeling things.  
  
But it's never been like that. Castiel can forget Dean, and he does, often. Days go by, then weeks, then months without anything, any news, any pain, and Dean's image fades in his brain, just loses its colors until he's nothing but a distant, graying silhouette.  
  
But then Castiel will be doing something, walking on the street or murmuring prayers in Enochian or fighting against demons, and _something_ will hit him. It will be a sharp pain in his shoulder, as though someone had stabbed him there; a throbbing in his eye, as though a punch had landed; a sudden, invisible weight hitting his solar plexus, that'll send him on the ground, gasping for breath he doesn't need.  
  
And he'll know. He hates it – he's never hated something more, and Castiel isn't a violent guy, he really isn't. But this – this. It's – his bound with Dean isn't something that belongs to him alone anymore. It isn't a fantasy, a nice, pretty, pink illusion that he's fabricated. It's something. It's tangible. It's more than tangible, actually, it obliges him to go down and just watch Dean fight, bloody and sweaty and desperate.  
  
Dean fights as though every day is his last. He fights as though he's got nothing to lose, and it's probably what he thinks. It's not hard to see in his eyes – his dark, blazing eyes – that it doesn't matter to him whether he lives or dies, and every day, it's the same thing. Everyday, he goes out and he fights, he fights on chance and talent, he doesn't take any precautions, he just pours himself into the fight and doesn't let go until the thing is dead.  
  
Then he stitches himself up, he wipes the blood from his mouth, he takes two hours' sleep, and he goes back again, his jaw set and his knuckles white around whatever weapon he's holding. He's reckless. He's self-destructive. And Castiel watches all of it, and feels every kick, every punch, every wound as though they were his own, and he wants to step up and tell Dean to stop, pull him in like the last time and let him cry and say that everything is going be okay.  
  
But he doesn't do it, because he knows Sam's gone, and John's gone too. He knows Dean's alone and nothing is going to be okay, ever, until he dies. It's sad. It's unfair. It's true. And Dean can't cry, and won't, and he prefers fighting against demons and hoping to die, and Castiel isn't going to do anything about it.  
  
He watches Dean fight, his eyes half-closed, his body trembling with energy and rage, sweat soaking his T-shirt and dampening his brow.  
  
And when the monster is too close, when Dean is on the edge of dying, ready to tip over and disappear into nothingness, that's when Castiel comes in and saves him. It doesn't happen often – Dean's talented – but it happens, and when it does it's silent and luminous. It's over in a few seconds, Castiel extending his hand and letting power flow through it, painfully aware of the gigantic shadow his trapped wings cast on the ground.  
  
Dean never says thank you. Sometimes he looks like he wants to, sometimes like he'd rather kill Castiel for not letting him die. It doesn't matter. It goes on and on, and the bound strengthens, the days filled with vicious cuts on the forearm and Dean's silent non-thank-yous, the roar of his Impala and the dust on the road, darker now, almost black.  
  
Castiel doesn't know a lot of things. He doesn't know what he and Dean are – are they friends? Is Dean even aware of his existence? Does he really see him, or does he only perceive a glowing form sweeping in to save him from his horrible fate? What is he? What are they?  
  
Sometimes Castiel thinks about it for hours and lets the questions simmer under his skin until they're boiling and aching to get out. Sometimes he thinks of Dean until his hands tremble with want, until his forehead is hot and he can't focus on anything else but the desperate glimmer in Dean's pupils. But he always ends up pushing it back.  
  
It doesn't matter what they are. They _are_. Isn't that enough?  
  
He tries to convince himself, and fails.  
  
One day, Castiel is walking to Gabriel's quarters to listen to yet another lecture on the benefits of 'letting go' (Castiel's personal opinion is that Gabriel 'lets go' enough for the two of them, and he's told him just that countless times, but apparently when it comes to Gabriel there is such a thing as 'selective hearing'), and he is stabbed between the shoulder-blades.  
  
Easy as that. One minute he's walking, and the next he's on the ground, gasping, desperately trying to take an invisible knife out of his back. He zaps himself as fast as he can, but the pain is stronger than it's ever been, and every movement is torture.  
  
“Dean!”  
  
It's not him yelling Dean's name.  
  
“Catch that!”  
  
It must be quick in human time, but for Castiel it takes ages for the blade to fall into Dean's hands. Dean. Who doesn't seem to worry more than that about the knife currently sticking from his back.  
  
“Got it!”  
  
It takes approximately a millisecond for Castiel to understand the situation, and it's the slower he's ever been. He must be overworked. So. Apparently there is John, who, if Castiel may say, came out of nowhere, helping Dean fight... whatever this furry thing is. And Dean is hurt. And John is throwing him a blade to fight a little more. How is that the appropriate solution?  
  
And Castiel should do something.  
  
He should help Dean. He should take out this knife and heal him, just this time, even if he's swore to himself he'd never do it. He should kill the monster. He should do something. Anything.  
  
But the thing is – and it's stupid, really, but Dean knows that they'll be fine. John is back, and Dean'll be fine with him, they're the same, they'll never die. They'll never die, not now anyway, and not while they're together. And even if they did, they would probably be happy about it. Castiel has absolutely nothing to do here anymore.  
  
He's useless. And he doesn't know if it really happens or if it just a figment of his imagination, his desperate mind hallucinating, but he looks up and he catches John's eye. It lasts a second, maybe even less, but Castiel could swear he sees something here that says 'It's okay, buddy, you've done enough. Thanks, and see you later.' He can see dismissal. He's – he's useless.  
  
It doesn't matter! He's an angel! He'll deal with it! Hell, hasn't he dealt with everything? Noah's arch? Check. Lucifer's little teenage crisis? Check. Several near-Apocalypses? Check, check and double-check. So what, is he going to let a stupid (and ridiculously handsome) human break his spirit? So what if it was written in the stars or whatever romantic platitude? So what if they were – what, star-crossed lovers? Yeah. Wishful thinking.  
  
It doesn't matter! It doesn't matter! If he's been able to help Dean, he's happy, but he'll move on, Castiel, he's like that, he moves on. He forgets. Or rather – he doesn't forget, but he learns to rationalize. He puts everything in little neat boxes in his brain and he just lets them at rest, lets them collect dust and he never takes them out again. It happens, things like that.  
  
It's like this heart – it's useless but you'll never get rid of it.  
  
And if Dean can manage without him, well, it's great, really, it is. John isn't the best daddy Dean could have, but Dean's never been lucky anyway, and a shitty father is better than none. Now that Dean isn't alone, there is no reason for Castiel to be there everyday, and no guilt to have. Really, it's a win-win situation.  
  
Castiel leaves before finding out who wins, the big furry thing or the happy tandem. He assumes it's the happy tandem when the pain between his shoulder-blades eases, a few hours later.  
  
But he can't stay at rest. Castiel, he's – he needs – it's stupid to say, and he sounds like a chick when he says it, but he needs closure. He needs to see Dean and say 'You're the most pathetic bastard I've ever seen. Good bye, Dean,' even if it's all lies and even himself doesn't believe it when he says it in front of the mirror (that was one time).  
  
So he comes back. It's sad how he knows exactly where Dean will be, holed in his motel room, licking his wounds and lamenting over the fact that he hasn't died yet. Castiel hopes John won't be there but it turns out he's lucky, and he enters the motel room without much care for discretion. He's tired of being discreet. He's tired of everything, lately.  
  
“Hi, Dean,” he says, and wonders when Dean got so used to him that he doesn't even jump or pretend to look surprised.  
  
Maybe he thinks Castiel is an hallucination. It must be it. It would be a Dean thing to believe, now that he thinks of it.  
  
“Let me help you with that,” he says, reaching for the gauze Dean is clumsily trying to wrap around his ankle.  
  
Castiel would think he's learned how to do it, what with his years of practice, but no, he's still as awkward when it comes to taking care of himself. It's more than a little sad, but Castiel tries not to think about it.  
  
He touches Dean's ankle and watches as the skin quickly reassembles to become as smooth and tanned as it used to be. Dean looks freaked out, and he jumps off the bed, holding his weapon in a strong, assured grip.  
  
“Dude, how did you do that?” he exclaims, and he sounds like a child, weary and tired but still vehement as to why the sky is blue.  
  
Castiel smiles sweetly. It makes his heart surge that Dean never said anything about his appearing from nowhere and saving him in the most incongruous of situations, but that he is concerned now that Castiel _touched his ankle_ , of all things.  
  
“Don't worry, Dean,” he says, and pats the bed invitingly, but Dean doesn't sit. It's okay. Castiel didn't expect him to, anyway.  
  
“Who are you?”  
  
“You'll know soon enough.”  
  
It's not even true. It'll never be soon enough or late enough, it'll never be appropriate, and it won't be now. But Castiel's used to telling lies. He's an angel, after all. It's his job. There wouldn't be a myth of white clouds and eternal sunshine if he weren't here – Castiel's always had this poetic streak.  
  
“Tell me who – what you are or I shoot.”  
  
He's never wanted it to go this way, but he should have known. Well, it doesn't matter. A few more holes into his coat, that's all it'll do. Maybe his vessel will be harmed, but he doesn't care, it's time he changed, anyway.  
  
“Dean...”  
  
So much for the pathetic bastard declaration. 'I love you' would be more appropriate, come to think of it, but Castiel pushes the thought in the back of his mind. It doesn't matter who he loves. It's time he left. He's been around long enough. And it's not even forever, and it's not like Castiel can't survive without Dean. It'll be, what? Ten years max, it's really not that long at all, and then they'll meet again, and it'll be the same niceties all over again, 'who are you' and 'what are you doing here?'.  
  
It's time. Just a little touch, and it'll be like he were never there, like he never saved Dean and never fell in love with him. Erase memory. Castiel sometimes thinks it's the cruelest of his powers – if he can call them that.  
  
He reaches to touch Dean. Dean shoots. It goes very fast then, the scent of powder and the fumes making their eyes prickle, the surprise causing Castiel to stumble and back up a few steps, and then he comes back almost immediately, his eyes almost white and his hand glowing, and Dean is sighing, a little, tiny sigh Castiel wouldn't have heard in other circumstances than these, his thumb almost brushing Dean's jaw and his breath caressing Dean's cheek and stubble, and it says 'Castiel'.  
  
It says his name.  
  
Dean doesn't seem to remember, and as soon as the thumb collide with his jaw every sparkle of recognition that could have existed promptly fades in the blank look that appears on his face, but he says his name. Castiel's name.  
  
He says Castiel's name and his voice is desperate and rugged; it doesn't belong to him anymore, Dean's made it his own, slow and slurred, said with a hint of spice and a light rush on the 'l', as though not to soften too much. It's as though this name is born anew each time it crosses the barrier of his lips, and it's beautiful. His name, Castiel's name, all dusty and steel-like that it has become across the years, becomes a phoenix when it brushes against Dean's tongue; it burns down to ashes before rising again, more beautiful than it has ever been, human and imperfect, full of this raw honesty Dean, Castiel knows, can't hide.  
  
Castiel's coat is torn and there is a bullet-hole adorning his chest, but he doesn't really care. He's aware that it's ridiculous and a little pathetic to be this shaken by so stupid a thing as that Dean unconsciously remembering his name from years ago, but – he doesn't care either. Dean remembered him. Surely there must be some reason that he did?  
  
But then he looks at the boy in front of him, his eyes glazed and murmuring incoherently, and he thinks: It doesn't matter anymore. He pats Dean's shoulder and tells him to go to bed, that it will be better in the morning – which it will be: forced amnesia always has this effect on conscious people, and Dean is lucky that he didn't fall unconscious, actually. Dean looks at him with this unbearable blank gaze.  
  
There's nothing.  
  
Castiel would probably have stayed and moped a few more minutes (he's stupid like that), but he can feel John coming back from wherever he was, maybe the local diner, getting diner for the both of them (Castiel's revengeful mind unhelpfully supplies that feeding his children exclusively takeout and junk food isn't the indication of very responsible parenting). So he leaves. He lets Dean to explain what happened to John, and he flees.  
  
He won't stay more in town, this time. He's already spent more time here than he should have, and even though his schedule has been mostly cleared by the Big Boss' (as Gabriel calls him) disappearance, he still has more interesting things to do than to longingly stalk a human teenager, thank you very much.  
  
He still stops at the diner he's seen Dean walk into the day before, and he tries to order a pie without looking too suspicious or weird (and failing. He still has some progress to make on the 'looking human' side). He chooses at random and ends up with a blueberry pie being shoved into his hands, still warm and delicious-smelling (Castiel guesses it's delicious-smelling, because it smells good and, well, it's food. Besides, Dean likes it, it can't be that bad – or can it?).  
  
He waits until he's back to Heaven to eat it, and it's cold by the time he gets there (he had to run some errands on the way), but he doesn't care. He eats it entirely, piece by piece, the blueberry filling sometimes dripping on his chin. He can't really decide if it's good, but it is strange and new and he finds himself yumming a few times. He even eats the crust and licks the crumbs off his fingers, his lips and tongue faintly blue.  
  
He spends a long time staring at the empty plate before getting up on his feet and promising himself to forget about Dean Winchester.  
  
He does, mostly.  
  
And if sometimes he hides a tremor when he hears about hunters and still sometimes feels a fist colliding with his chest, he doesn't say anything. It doesn't really matter. It will go away, eventually. He hopes.  
  
Secretly, he waits for his time.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Castiel is ready when his time comes. He's been ready for some time, really – forever, but he doesn't want to sound melodramatic. He's watched Dean as he struggled and cried in Hell – closed his eyes and tried to ignore his pleas because it had not been time. But now it is, and thus he gets to see Dean face to face, and tell him who he is. Maybe, he thinks with more anticipation than he should, Dean will even remember him, be it a faint and blurred memory, and that memory will cause him to lower his guard. Who knows.  
  
As it turns out, Dean doesn't. Remember.  
  
He's the same as always and different at the same time. Castiel has been unable to refrain from watching him from time to time, and he's always stricken at how his unusual beauty seems to have intensified at every new gaze he cast upon him.  
  
His face has hardened from the hardships, and he no longer has these child-like, neatly cut features, although he does keep something of it in the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones. Hell, as Castiel would've suspected, has done nothing but reinforce his beliefs and stain his mind with fear.  
  
The wary, feral spark that has always, or at least for as long as Castiel remembers, slept in his eyes has grown into a flame, and he sometimes jumps, as though expecting someone to leap out of the darkness and at his throat. Castiel can see Sam throwing worried glances Dean's way, but because they have this tacit understanding of never talking about feelings, he doesn't say anything. Castiel kind of wishes he would, but he knows Dean wouldn't say anything. How do you tell Hell?  
  
And Dean – he's lost faith. It used to be a strong, healthy light that pulsed in his chest, whether or not he was conscious of it. His journey with his brother, unraveling the darkest of secrets, had already started to wear it off, but his stay in Hell, these endless hours, days, months spent broken and burnt, battered, frozen, have made him lose what little belief he still had in the kingdom of the Eternal.  
  
Of course, it can't go easy. In his haste to reach Dean, and because he thought the fact that it was time meant he didn't have to use an intermediary, he tries to talk to Dean in his true form. He thought – did he even think? Maybe, deep inside – but he won't tell – he thought that Dean was a chosen one, that he... but it doesn't matter anymore.  
  
So Dean wakes up in his coffin, and Castiel's heart leaps in his chest. Here it is, finally, this moment he has been waiting for, his! He murmurs something in Dean's ear (but now he won't remember, it still stings, even after all this time), something serious and angel-like but still laced with tenderness, he says 'Wake up, Dean. The Lord has great projects for you.'  
  
But Dean's face screws up and he reaches to shield his ears, he's in pain, he can't hear anything. Castiel tries and tries and almost has tears of frustration (angelic tears – storms) falling out of his eyes. He goes back to Heaven and decides to wait a few days more. Maybe. Maybe then.  
  
(He doesn't talk about Hell, but he remembers. He never likes going there – he can feel Lucifer in all the chains, in all the flames, and even in the atmosphere, electricity laced with sulphur. Dean's salvation is mostly a reddish blur. Of course, Lucifer couldn't keep him from saving Dean, but it didn't change the fact that he was unnaturally nervous. Then, he remembers hauling Dean from where he lay, bloody and wounded, and carrying him in his arms. Settling him in his coffin. Kissing his forehead. Wiping as much blood as he could from his face. Leaving. And waiting. Waiting, again.)  
  
When he comes back, it's the same thing. A woman tries to call him, and he warns her off, but she persists. Seeing him makes her blind. He doesn't feel guilty, he feels sad, and Dean thinks he's evil. All in all, everything is going horribly wrong.  
  
He tries one last time, and ends up shattering glass and making Dean bleed. He watches powerlessly as Dean presses the heels of his hands to his ears and looks around, bewildered. This must be a sign, something in him says, and he listens even though he doesn't want to. This must be a sign. If they can't even communicate now that it is time, is there – is there even a chance? Then he remembers that he isn't supposed to think there could be a chance and pushes the though out of his mind.  
  
Then Dean summons him and he decides to go with a body. He chooses a new one, a pretty, human body with electric blue eyes and a strong, chiseled jaw – he even finds the same coat he used to have. Overall, he is happy with this body, but it's not – it's not him. Well. It's better than nothing, he guesses.  
  
He does the traditional angel entrance half-heartedly. Truth be told – and contrary to his various brothers – he's never really liked the theatrics. Oh, of course, he does enjoy a bit of dramatics from time to time – doesn't everyone? Besides, he's a freaking  _angel_. It's almost a requirement in his function -, but he prefers the contact. It's funny to make things clatter and shake, to play wind and cops and robbers and hide and seek, but it gets boring eventually (though Gabriel does not seem to think the same).  
  
What Castiel really likes, it's reading minds – it's talking – it's looking deep into someone's eyes – it's hearing someone's words and understand what they mean and just plain and simple exist to someone other than himself. It sounds silly, and maybe it even is, but it's true.  
  
He cuts short the noises and the lights, and manages to walk into the room within a quarter of hour, which is a personal record. Personally, he thinks the lights and the electricity give a little personal, artistic touch to the entrance – he's almost proud of it.  
  
Of course, Dean and whoever-he-is don't think the same way, and no sooner has he entered the room than they're shooting rock salt at him. Good thing he's bought about one hundred of these coats, he thinks idly (the lady at the shop looked a little confused, though. She even asked if he was planning to do a remake of Columbo, but he ignored her – he's not imitating anyone, let alone this Columb person, even though he has no idea who he is).  
  
Of course, he stays stoic and keeps walking towards the two idiots, barely flinching when the salt hits his chest. It hurts a little, but not too much – it's okay, mostly. It's not like he had great expectations for the two of them – not like he thought Dean would hold him tight and thank him, right?  
  
But it turns out the bullets were just the mise-en-bouche, because it all goes downhill from there.  
  
“Who are you?” Dean asks – growls, more like – and Castiel wants to laugh because he's heard this line so many times, but he doesn't.  
  
“I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition,” he answers instead, and it's true – he's sworn he'd do it, and he did.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean snarls, his face cold and hostile, “thanks for that.”  
  
And then he stabs Castiel.  
  
It's not like it hurts or something stupid like that – at least, not physically. It hurts that Dean doesn't believe, but it's not really a surprise. The knife is nice, even though it's a demon's, Castiel can feel it. He throws a glance at it, sticking from his chest, and then back at Dean, who looks bewildered and aggressive at the same time. Castiel tries to look menacing as well – it's always better than heartbroken, right?  
  
He'll have to explain everything again, from the start and with details, he'll have to talk and try to convince Dean. He's already tired from it, honestly. He removes the knife and Dean's eyes grow even wider when it falls on the ground, clattering.  
  
When what's-his-name is on the ground, too, Castiel figures they can take care of the real business, namely, the talking. Truth be told, he's had this share of knives and blades for at least three hundred lifetimes. But no, Dean is a good boy, Dean wants to check that what's-his-name is not dead, even though Castiel's told him he isn't – and so he does. He takes his time, too, and Castiel is growing impatient, so he tells him (again) that his friend's alive.  
  
But Dean doesn't hear. Dean's never been very good at linear conversations.  
  
“Who are you?” he asks,  _again_.  
  
It's growing tiring.  
  
“Castiel,” he answers. Something in him hopes that Dean will react to the name, something, anything, but he doesn't.  
  
Instead he says he'd figured, probably from the blind woman, Castiel thinks, and he asks the question again, this question Castiel hadn't answered twenty years ago. But now it's different. He has the right to answer.  
  
“I'm an Angel of the Lord.”  
  
Of course Dean wouldn't believe him. It makes sense. It's not like Castiel's been with him for twenty years, and yeah, he erased his memory, but isn't there supposed to be  _something_ , something in him that tells him that angels are real? Some kind of stupid intuition?  
  
Castiel is angry and frustrated and sad but he keeps a straight face anyway, even when Dean tells him to get 'the hell outta here', whatever that means, certainly not what Castiel understands.  
  
“There's no such thing.”  
  
And really, it bewilders Castiel that after so many years spent hunting demons and vampires and succubae and other sticky, clawy, evil things, he won't believe that Angels exist. This is going so wrong. So undeniably, incredibly wrong.  
  
And so he says it.  
  
“This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith.”  
  
He doesn't say 'anymore' but it's right there on the tip of his tongue, almost burning. He wants to grip Dean's shoulders and shake him, shake him until everything falls back into place, the recognition, the reunion, the Angels, Hell. He doesn't, as usual.  
  
He just keeps looking penetrating and mystic (since the aim here is to convince Dean he is, indeed, an angel) and lets his wings unfold from where they're hidden, just a little so that their shadow appears on the wall behind him. It's not much. He'd like to really let it go and free them, let them stand tall and high on his back like the splendid feathery wonders they are, but he doesn't. It's too much for a human – if there's something he's learnt these last few days, it's that.  
  
Dean looks convinced.  
  
Of course he's still stubborn and he's still Dean, and Castiel has to explain himself. He doesn't mind much, he mostly just thinks it's useless, but he'll do it if that's what Dean wants. He wonders why he fell in love with him. Dean. It seems absurd and stupid, but at the same time it makes sense, and when Castiel looks at Dean, his square jaw and his burning green eyes, he feels nothing but a strong pull of  _want_ in his stomach, almost physical.  
  
Dean starts joking. It feels good, familiar almost. Castiel wants to pull him in a hug and say 'Welcome back', but Dean wouldn't understand. He wants to touch Dean so much his fingers itch. It's pathetic. The good kind of pathetic, though. For once.  
  
He says a little too much than he should have when he explains his previous visits, lets a little disappointment slide, says he thought Dean would be able to feel him but that he turned out to be wrong.  
  
“What form are you in now, huh? Holy tax accountant?”  
  
Castiel feels a little insulted on his coat's behalf. Really. He likes his coat! And his coat likes him – at least he thinks so.  
  
They talk for a few minutes – or, Dean attacks him and Castiel explains things, stupid things like vessels and angels. Dean doesn't believe him. Dean doesn't believe in anything anymore. Castiel would like to lay him to sleep and whisper in his ear that everything is going to be alright. He's not sure why Dean deserves everything that is happening to him, but God taught him that everything happens for a reason. There must be a reason.  
  
Castiel can't afford to lose faith.  
  
“Who are you really?”  
  
It would be a tough question to answer if he really answered it, but he knows what Dean is waiting for.  
  
“I told you. I'm an angel.”  
  
But Dean – Dean is full of doubt and indecisions. Dean is a shattered mirror – his soul lies amongst shards of broken glass.  
  
“And why would an angel,” says Dean, his jaw set and his eyes burning, doubting, still, “rescue me from Hell?”  
  
This comes as a surprise, although it shouldn't. Of course Dean is insecure, after Hell, but he's always been so strong in this broken way of his, Castiel thought... he thought – but it was stupid – that Dean knew he'd been saved because he had to. Because he deserved it. He thought he knew he was loved.  
  
But Hell does that to people. It burns them, it changes them, and it never gives them back. Not unscathed.  
  
Castiel takes a second to hate Lucifer with all his heart for having broken Dean again.  
  
“Good things do happen, Dean,” Castiel says – though he knows it's useless.  
  
He's still confused, though. He still has to squint to decipher the doubt and the self-hatred on Dean's traits.  
  
Dean answers through clenched teeth, “Not in my experience.”  
  
The truth of this affirmation hits Castiel like a blade. His faith is shaken. How wouldn't it be?  
  
“What's the matter?” he asks stupidly.  
  
And then, as truth unravels itself before his eyes, in the flickering light in Dean's pupils, “You don't think you deserve to be saved.”  
  
Dean swallows and the muscles of his jaw clench harder, if it's possible.  
  
“Why did you do it?”  
  
Castiel could answer: Because I love you. He could answer: Because you deserve it, because you're a beautiful being, because you're full of light and hope and energy and because there's so much good in you. He could answer: Because there aren't enough people like you in this world. He doesn't, though. Dean wouldn't believe him, and it is only partly true, as much as it pains him (Castiel does not ask himself what he would have done if Dean had been sent to Hell before it was Castiel's time. He doesn't).  
  
“Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you.”  
  
It's true. All of it is true.  
  
It is also true that he'd like nothing more in this instant than to cup Dean's face in his hands and hold him, hold him for all the time he watched and waited and worried and cried. It is also true that he'd do everything just to be able to kiss this pain, this insecurity, this worry away.  
  
It is also true, but he doesn't say it.  
  
As usual, he keeps silent and disappears, his eyes still deep into Dean's; and he holds onto the memory of their vibrant green for as long as he can.  
  
**  
  
Sam snorts from the other side of the room, bent over his laptop.  
  
Dean groans.  
  
“Dude,” he intones, his voice a strange mix between annoyance and affection, as always when he addresses Sam, Castiel has noticed. “ _What_? Don't tell me you've been lurking on fanfictions again – I gotta tell ya, man, it's creepy.”  
  
Castiel smiles at that. Dean tried to protect him from fanfiction and it has worked for some time, but eventually Sam and Castiel were alone and there was this 'fanfic you  _have_ to read, Cas, I swear', and it pretty much all went downhill from there.  
  
Dean was not pleased, but Castiel finds it very entertaining (although a little disturbing) to see the results of these people's (mostly sexual) fantasizing on fictional characters. It is very peculiar, he thinks. He's not sure he sees the point, but some of them are very well-written.  
  
It's a quiet day. Sam and Dean have been injured in their last hunt, and they're staying in the time for their wounds to get better – or at least good enough for them to get back at it. It doesn't happen much – usually they stitch themselves up and here they go again, bloody, their teeth clenched, but Sam's arm is in a cast, and they don't have much choice.  
  
Castiel loves it. He loves the familiarity that settled between them three – between him and Dean. He loves their chemistry, he loves appearing in front of Dean and knowing that Dean knows who he is, hasn't forgotten him.  
  
Life isn't easy – it never will be – but sometimes, like now, their hectic life slows down for a little while, a few hours spent in the motel with beers and pie, Sam's muffled laughter and Dean's quiet insults, and it feels good. It feels amazing.  
  
“Cas?”  
  
He loves the nickname (the way Dean says it, drawling, rich, honeyed, low). He loves the way Dean doesn't step back anymore, even if he grumbles about 'personal space'. He loves how Dean smiles at his clumsiness in the human world, and is impressed at his angelic charisma, sometimes, when he gets all powerful and divine.  
  
“You want pie?”  
  
Human food doesn't really mobilize Castiel. It's not that he doesn't like it – God knows he does like a good burger – only it's not necessary, and sometimes he just plain forgets.  
  
“Yes,” he answers anyway, because it's Dean, with his shining eyes and good-natured smile, and his lips...  
  
“Here you go,” drawls Dean, shoving a warm, pie-filled plate in his hands.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Castiel finds it amazing and adorable that Dean always carries pie with him everywhere. Sam just finds it ridiculous.  
  
It's blueberry pie.  
  
Castiel smiles and wipes blue-tinged crumbs from Dean's upper lip, enjoying the way Dean blushes and ignoring Sam's mock-disgusted laughter.  
  
Life is good.  
  
The whole day pretty much follows this pattern, light and playful. It's raining lightly outside, just enough for the air to be fresh and invigorating. Dean hums AC/DC in the kitchen where he is making yet more coffee – plain black, Castiel has learnt.  
  
Things haven't been that great in Heaven lately, but Castiel can't bring himself to care. Right now, at this very moment, he's got everything he wants – everything he's wanted since this fateful day when he saw Dean standing before him, his insanely green eyes piercing the crowd.  
  
They do a bit of research and Castiel warns the brothers out of succubae, they drink a little, Sam shows Dean something that has him running around the motel room shielding his eyes and lamenting that he's been scarred forever. Dean and Castiel go on the terrace (Sam stays inside because he still has 'research to do'. Dean teases him relentlessly).  
  
They gaze silently at the darkening horizon, beers warming in their clammy hands, the fresh scent of the rain-covered nature filling their nostrils.  
  
“Cas,” Dean says suddenly, looking right in front of him.  
  
“Yes, Dean?”  
  
They're a little too close – their shoulders are touching.  
  
“I never -”  
  
Dean twirls his bottle in his hands, apparently determined not to look at Castiel.  
  
“I never really thanked you, for, you know.”  
  
He lets a little moment of silence, as though Castiel is supposed to say that yes, he knows, but he doesn't.  
  
“Saving me from Hell, and all that stuff. So... yeah. I'm doin' it now.”  
  
He finally raises his eyes. Castiel is a little breath-taken and a lot in love.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
His voice is soft and low, they're looking at each other – Castiel idly thinks that maybe this is what humans call a 'moment', but it doesn't matter.  
  
From here, and with Dean's breath fanning on his lips, it looks faintly as though Dean is leaning in to kiss him. Which, Castiel realizes belatedly, he indeed was – is – was, since he is kissing Dean.  
  
Actually kissing him.  
  
It's not forceful like Castiel imagined it would be – it's soft and a little sad, Dean's hand pressing lightly on his nape, angling his face. Castiel can't say that he has been kissed much in his (albeit long) life, but this is his best kiss so far and, he suspects, the best kiss in his whole life.  
  
Dean's lips are chapped and rough, like him – they taste like beer and  _Dean_. Castiel can't describe how kissing him is, really – all he can do is fist Dean's T-shirt and hope this moment never ends. It's better than everything. It's better than roasted marshallows, than Heaven's sunrise, than fireworks. Better than blueberry pie. Better than Castiel's trench coat.  
  
And Castiel knows, he knows it won't happen again, he can feel it in the way Dean's tongue brushes against his own, he knows that tomorrow Dean will blame it on the alcohol he hasn't drunk and they will never talk about it again. But it doesn't matter. Really, it doesn't. Because he has this moment and his love for Dean will not go away. He doesn't care about such stupid things as bodies and physicality. Loving Dean – and knowing that Dean loves him back – will be more than enough.  
  
“Dean?” he asks, briefly separating their lips.  
  
“What?” Dean answers – he seems annoyed, and leans in to kiss Castiel again.  
  
“I should teach you Enochian,” he whispers against Dean's skin.  
  
Dean laughs into the kiss.  
  
He immerses himself in the moment. He can feel Dean do the same, though his shoulders are still a little tense – he must be afraid Sam will catch them red-handed. Dean's right hand settles low on Castiel's waist, his fingers brushing the bare skin that shows where his shirt has ridden up.  
  
It is so surreal, all this. Castiel can feel under his fingers the swollen flesh of the imprint of his own hand, and he remembers this day, so many years ago, when Dean laid his hand on Castiel's forehead and marked him too. Wasn't that Destiny? Oh, of course, he's hidden it (it isn't the most discreet of scars, really), but it's still here under the skin, still burning, as new as if it had been imprinted seconds ago instead of years.  
  
“Dean...,” he whispers – moans.  
  
Dean pretends he doesn't hear.  
  
They kiss for long, lazy minutes, languid kisses filled with all these repressed feelings they kept to themselves for too long. The night is clear and forgiving, almost motherly, hiding them in her gentle embrace. The moment draws out, and Castiel can't remember how long they've been here when Dean finally breaks the kiss.  
  
He doesn't say anything, just picks up his beer and comes back inside.  
  
Castiel stays outside. He gazes up at the sky, and he smiles, a private, intimate smile.  
  
“Thank you,” he says.  
  
It was more than he'd hoped for, really.  
  
Life is good, today.  
  
**  
  
It's later, much later, and Dean still doesn't understand Enochian, but it's okay. Castiel has given up on teaching him anything, and besides, he's not sure He would like it very much. The night is drawing to an end. It looks like there's a war going on in the sky, and even though Castiel very well knows that it isn't the case, he can't help but gape at the ferocious splendor of this fictitious slaughter.  
  
It looks like... it looks like the sun has been twirling like a ballerina, and his tutu – spider-made tulle embroidered with water drops – has splattered the skies bright red. There's a hint of ochre if you squint, but overall it's mostly red, deep, profound red that draws blood rivers – or maybe they're tears, Castiel can't decide – down the immense indigo curtain.  
  
Dean is dying. Everyone, except maybe Sam, knew that he was going to die young. Sam will, too, just a little older because he's a little wiser, because he knows evil and because he knows fear. Castiel will protect him – of course he will. Not only does he owe it to Dean, but he really does like Sam, in his own way, a little wary because he knows what he's capable of, and Dean doesn't.  
  
He will stay and look after him. It's what Dean would have wanted. It won't be the same, of course. It will be its own thing, not necessarily worse, not necessarily better either. Different.  
  
Dean won't come back, this time. Castiel has talked to the horseman earlier on. 'It's his time,' he said, long face hidden in the shadows, and then added: 'I'm sorry, Castiel.' That he is in love with Dean is kind of an international, inter-species joke. He doesn't mind.  
  
Humans have to die. He realized that a long time ago, and he's glad that he did. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have been able to live his life with the Winchester brothers as serenely as he did, what with their always running around and basically committing suicide twice a day.  
  
He knew Dean was going to die. It had to happen, and Winchesters usually die before everyone. Castiel was prepared, at least as much as he could be. Of course, it doesn't mean seeing that witch stab Dean, square in the chest, didn't shock him and shake him. His breath did get caught in his throat in horror, his heartbeat did quicken, his hands did begin trembling, made clammy by the fear – this overwhelming fear. But if Dean had to die, there's nothing Castiel can do to stop it. It's okay, he tells himself.  
  
Dean fell one hour ago. Since then, they have, chronologically, killed the witch (Sam), incinerated her with a little more enthusiasm than necessary (Castiel), and ran towards Dean (both of them). Sam insisted that they call an ambulance despite Castiel's protests that Dean's death was meant to be. Castiel doesn't blame him. But they're in the middle of a 'freaking forest', as Dean called it when they got here; consequently, there is no network, and even if there were, Dean would be off by the the time the help got here.  
  
Of course, Sam, faithful and stubborn as he is, won't accept that, and is currently trying to stop the flood of blood that's flowing steadily out of Dean's chest by applying pressure on the wound with a makeshift bandage that is, in fact, his torn T-shirt. Castiel looks at him a little sadly, but doesn't help nor stop him. It's part of the process. Acceptance. But Sam's strong. He'll survive, Castiel is sure of it.  
  
Dean is still conscious. His breathing is erratic, coming out of his mouth in little white puffs in the winter air, his cheeks are a little rosy from the cold and the pain. He'll make a beautiful corpse, Castiel thinks, and then: he'll make a beautiful  _anything_ , really. He briefly wonders where Dean is going to go, after, but he pushes the thought in the back of his mind. Maybe he'll have Heaven after all, he thinks, a little hopefully.  
  
Sam is no longer frantic, and is now talking to Dean in hushed tones, tears he doesn't bother wiping trailing down his cheeks. Castiel's heart clenches at the sight. It'll be hard for Sam. Of course it'll be. It'll be hard for everyone.  
  
Sam is saying 'No' like a mantra, but he stops when Dean brings a shaking hand to his lips to shush him. He says something that makes his eyes shine and Sam holds him for a long time, murmuring what Castiel imagines to be prayers and promises for a better future. He doesn't pry, though. He's not blind enough not to see that this moment is not his.  
  
Then Sam draws back and just  _stands_ here, as though he were frozen on the spot, silent tears staining his cheeks. Castiel can't help but close the distance between them with a few steps and reach out awkwardly to embrace him. Sam obviously wasn't expecting it but he welcomes it nonetheless, clumsily draping his giant arms around Castiel's back.  
  
“It is okay,” Castiel says – mostly because he doesn't know what else to say.  
  
It's not okay, but Sam doesn't say it, just keeps shaking in Castiel's arms until he calms down, and Castiel is looking above his shoulder, right into Dean's green, green eyes.  
  
Everything happens so fast.  
  
Suddenly Sam is gone and Castiel can't see him – can't see anything but Dean. The world around them has disappeared, and it would be cheesy if there wasn't blood pooling around Dean's stomach where he lies.  
  
“C'mere,” he whispers in his rich, honeyed tone.  
  
Castiel does.  
  
He kneels next to Dean. He wishes he still had his healing powers, he wishes, he wishes he could still resuscitate people, really, this is coming at such a bad time, this is so wrong, it's -  
  
“Take care of Sam, 'kay?”  
  
Castiel nods. He will.  
  
Dean's eyes are fluttering, as though they desperately want to close but he won't let them.  
  
“Thank you,” he murmurs.  
  
“You're welcome,” Castiel answers simply.  
  
Dean seems to be happy with the answer and lets his eyelids drop shut. They stay a long moment like that, Dean's chest still rising feebly and his lips trembling with the cold, and Castiel kneeling next to him, powerless.  
  
“I love you,” Castiel eventually says, hovering (“creepily”, Dean would have added) above Dean's lying form.  
  
Dean's eyes flutter open with what seems to be utmost difficulty, and he sighs, his drawl rendered even heavier by the pain, “Whatcha say?”  
  
Castiel smiles sweetly.  
  
“It's funnier in Enochian,” he whispers.  
  
  
  
Then Dean dies.  
  
But it's okay.  
  
It's okay.


End file.
